‘We have to go, Mr Barclay, but we’ll come back once we can locate your son.’
Barclay half raised his hand. ‘Not yet, Superintendent. You’ll probably have my son before the day’s out, and if I’m not mistaken he expects to be caught. That’s the problem. I miscalculated, and it seems not for the first time, thinking that whoever did this would stop after my conviction. I was wrong. He wants to take the whole thing a stage further and destroy himself. That way he can be sure there’s no way back for me in either reputation, professional career or any pretence that I was part of the establishment.’
O’Connor looked as if he was about to ask a question, but Barclay was back in character as the commanding advocate. The court was his for the moment, and he flicked his forefinger up in a little gesture that told O’Connor to wait for the punchline.
‘I’m not finished, and I’m afraid neither is he. When my son came to see me, he wanted to talk, to look me in the eye and admit to me what he’d done and why. For the first time in my life I’ve spent a lot of hours regretting what I’ve made of myself, and it might seem strange, but I needed the release of confession. I’m not a Catholic, but it felt right. Another mistake unfortunately.’ He paused for a moment and saw the detectives trapped by the words, waiting for the final act of the drama – a terrible revelation that that was only moments away.
‘By way of an explanation, I told him about the girl I hurt all those years ago and how Harkins became involved with me. He blames me for almost everything that’s made him the vain, pumped-up failure he is and for what I brought home to his mother, and now he blames the police for not stopping me in my tracks. When I say the police, I should say Harkins. I think his original plan involved something else and perhaps even you, Chief Inspector, but now I believe you need to rescue Mick, because if I’m not mistaken, my son’s been stalking him – or at least trying to find him – since last night.’
Macallan saw it coming, and she was already running the options through her head. Where was Mick?
‘He’s changed the final part of his game, and I think he’s trying to find Harkins to play it out, which shouldn’t be too hard given the man’s drinking habits. Give Mick my best if you get to him first; no doubt I’ll be seeing you on the outside. There’s the rub – I think my time in here is limited now. It’s an ill wind.’ But he said it to a closing interview-room door.
Macallan and O’Connor were already on their way out and running for their cars.
73
Harkins pulled his collar up as the rain killed the warm places below his coat. He sheltered in a pub doorway, trying to work up the energy to leave the warmth behind. The rain had lightened for a moment but it was just getting ready for another downpour.
Any variety in his life had ended when he’d walked away from HQ for the last time, and he felt surrounded by a hostile world, remembering those last days in the squad that had nearly taken him over the edge.
He was sure people knew what had finally kicked the life out of Mick Harkins and his career. The other detectives seemed to have become distant, and he didn’t want to talk to them, even to slag them off, as had always been his custom. When they did talk to him, he was sure they noticed his clouded eyes, the imperfect attempts at shaving and the worry grinding in his chest. The fear of discovery was sapping his appetite and shooting waves of nervous energy through his body when all he wanted was sleep.
He was being tortured by some of the same demons who’d visited Thomas Barclay, but there was nowhere for him to go without the job, and bars were the only places that could at least put him near other human beings who would have no way of knowing or judging what he’d done. No one who knew him wanted to be seen in his company – retired police was still police – and he was losing weight rapidly, the space around his collar now wide enough to let the pissing rain run straight down his back.
He stood on the edge of the pavement, squinting into the spray thrown up by the passing wheels. He wondered how it had happened: he was young, then one day he was middle aged, and now he was fucked.
The bookies was on the other side of the road, and he cursed as a flash set of wheels splashed the filthy street water over his legs and shoes. He peered into the driving rain, which had started again with a vengeance, and took no notice of the car revving its engine at the side of the street. He stepped out onto the road as he fumbled in his raincoat for a half-squashed cigarette packet and was barely aware of the roar of the engine before he became airborne and then hit the tarmac.
‘Fuck!’
When the car hit him, the pain was an explosion – then almost as quickly it drained into the cold, damp ground below, and with it went all sensation. He was just aware that the freezing droplets of rain were making him blink, and that he couldn’t move his head to avoid them. He was sure he was dying, but he felt surprisingly calm. Like most people, he’d wondered how his last moments would be, but there was almost an anticlimax in the experience.
With the pain gone his mind adjusted to the situation. A uniform bent over him and mouthed something, but it was a silent movie, although he could guess what was being said. Christ knows he’d been there often enough himself as a young policeman – a thousand years ago now, it seemed. All you could do was tell the poor sod to be calm and that help was on its way. Well, he was calm but didn’t think much could sort his situation. He imagined his own young face on the policeman, and if he could he would have wept. Then he saw Grace trying to get to him. She was crying, her face lacerated with pain, and he realised what she’d become to him. His chest heaved with the effort of staying alive and he said it in no more than a whisper: ‘Jesus Christ, this isn’t how it should end.’
74
Macallan walked through the hospital corridors, wondering what she would say. She got to the room and saw Harkins through the glass. He was motionless in the chair, staring out of the window, and from what she’d been told, he didn’t have much option but to stare. They said there was a chance he might never walk again, but it was early days, and Harkins was a stubborn bastard who would give it a go if even partial recovery was a possibility. The fact he’d survived was a minor miracle on its own.
‘Mick?’
He looked round slowly. Harkins could only do slow for the time being.
‘Grace. Good to see you. Didn’t think you’d come.’ He managed a half-grin, but it was tired and the hard man looked feeble.
She told him she understood. He did what he did, and it had gone wrong. Other people did things and survived – it was all in the lap of the gods, and it just depended whether they were having a good day or a shit day. She told him he was a good cop no matter what and that the world was just fucked up.
After an hour she kissed his forehead, walked out of the hospital and headed back to HQ. She knew the fiscal was struggling with charges against him, but what else could they do to him? He was in the worst kind of prison so she thought they should leave him be. She certainly wasn’t going to judge the man.
She had an appointment with the deputy chief to get to, and she had no idea whether it was going to be bad or worse than bad, but she could at least take comfort that Thomas Barclay was locked up like a bit player from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. His father was free and hiding from everyone though mostly his ex-clients, but they’d managed to contain some of the information about his relationship with Harkins, so it all depended on whether they put Mick on trial. If they did, then it would surely all come out – and the casualties would no doubt mount up.
75
She knocked at the door, walked into the over-large office and felt her feet sink into the carpet. It was an ill-divided world. The secretary brought a tray in and tea was served right on cue, but the censure never came and Macallan’s world changed again.
‘You’ll be promoted to Superintendent and will take over as lead officer for the MCT. How does that suit you?’
‘I’m shocked, sir, and didn’t expect this. What about Mr O’Connor?’
>
‘We think his skills lie elsewhere; he’ll take over as head of complaints and internal investigation. The force has taken a beating, but we’ll survive. We always do. John took some flak, as we all did, but he’s a good man and we should never forget that. You took risks and it could have failed, but you’re high profile and that reflects well on the force. The story Jacquie Bell did on your career has put you in a good place, and we can use that. John O’Connor might feel like you’ve replaced him, but he’ll just have to live with that, so let’s all get on with it and keep up the good work with the MCT.’
She left the room realising that she could never aspire to high office because they all spoke the same crap. The truth was that O’Connor had taken all the flak, even though there was little he could have done to prevent what had happened. She knew that there were people who would always despise her for what she was, and one of them was now in charge of complaints and discipline. ‘Fucking wonderful,’ she muttered.
She walked into the squad room and her new empire, picked up the phone and booked a flight to Belfast. She’d said that she would never go back, but she wanted to see Bill Kelly before it was too late. She wanted to tell him how much he meant to her – and she wanted to walk round the city in the daylight, when there were no shadows and the dead were just that.
76
Macallan leaned over the chair where Bill Kelly had fallen asleep mid-conversation. He looked old and she could tell his time was near. She ran her hand over his forehead one last time and left. They’d said all that needed to be said to each other, and she was glad she’d seen him, even the way he was. He wasn’t frightened, just tired, and managed to wisecrack that some old PIRA boys would probably lift a glass to him after the funeral. She held his wife and left their home to walk into the city.
She wandered through the town past City Hall, but it looked normal and people were just going about their business. The war was long over for everyone but the diehards who just couldn’t live without the cause – deluded men and women who couldn’t see the world moving on without them. If proof was needed then the dissidents just needed to tune into Ulster’s favourite double act – McGuinness and Paisley.
She pushed open the doors of the Crown Bar and sucked in the heavy smells of good beer and real food. The customers were just people talking and living their lives.
Macallan ordered a half of Guinness and thought about how far the city had come and what people could achieve together even after the horrors of the Troubles. The Europa opposite was testament to that – it had been the most bombed hotel in the world at one time, but there it was, lights flashing as if nothing had ever happened.
Darkness fell and she walked along Donegal Pass, onto the Ormeau Road and past the Markets, where years before she would have been taken, her body left on display on some waste ground. But nothing came out of the shadows; it was just night in the city.
Macallan knew that a chapter of her life was closing. The dreams would still come but not so often, and they had started to become blurred, like her memories.
She walked up Newtownards Road and headed for the HQ building of PSNI and what had been the RUC. She touched her face nervously a couple of times as she was checked in by the security men at the entrance. Even by police-building standards, it was uninteresting to look at, but it had witnessed so much in its time. Like so many of her colleagues and friends, some of them murdered by the Provos, she’d spent long days and even longer nights in that building never knowing who was next. The small garden of remembrance was there, commemorating so many dead officers – so many families torn apart in the dirty war – and Bill Kelly had made her promise to go back for a visit. It might hurt, but he knew better than she did that she needed to leave the past where it was.
‘Don’t expect a champagne reception, Grace,’ he’d said, ‘but you need to face up to it. The PSNI is part of the service, and you might well need them again in your career. I’ve called the boss in Major Crime and he’d be happy to meet you. You’ve grown quite a reputation you know, bit of a celeb.’ And he’d managed a grin.
She waited at the counter for her pass and a Major Crime DCI came along and shook her hand warmly. She didn’t know him, and she was thankful for that. For him it was just a courtesy visit from a senior L&B detective who’d served in Northern Ireland.
She shivered as she walked along the corridors, remembering how excited she’d been when she first joined the Branch. She chewed the fat with the DCI for half an hour before he suggested they head out for dinner, and she was trying to think up an excuse to avoid it when her phone went off and startled her.
‘Macallan.’
It was her office calling – one of the detectives in the MCT.
‘Sorry, ma’am, a body’s been found. It’s a murder.’
Her shoulders straightened and she felt that familiar adrenaline beginning to course through her. ‘I’m on my way.’
She bid farewell to the DCI and began her journey back to Edinburgh to find out what life held in store for her next.
Cause of Death Page 26
